


Unexpected Developments

by psychicdreams



Series: Treatment Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Sidequel to After The Silent Treatment] Sherlock's fit of jealousy has unexpected developments for both Mycroft and Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lestrade thundered up the stairs, through the already open door as fast as he could. His feet barely managed to stop just past the threshold. He spotted Sherlock sitting on his habitual sofa straight off, playing with the strings on his violin and looking… _perfectly…healthy._ Sherlock looked up calmly and said, “Ah. You’re here.”

He panted a bit. “What? What’s the problem?”

“Problem? Ah, yes.” He pointed the violin’s bow to the other end of the apartment that Lestrade hadn’t even glanced at. His gaze followed it to see someone that was not John sitting in John’s chair. He was dressed impeccably in a gray suit, an umbrella resting under his hand, with a half-annoyed expression. “Arrest him.” Apparently seeing Lestrade’s utterly confused expression, Sherlock sighed and half-growled as he continued, “For trespassing.”

The man rolled his eyes heavily. “You’re being dramatic again.”

“Hardly.” Sherlock glanced at him then paused. “Why were you running?”

His temper flared just a little. “Sherlock! You called me and said it was urgent, and you needed help! If we weren’t in a high speed chase with someone, I’d have had all available backup here! What’s going on? Where’s John? Who is _he_?”

There was a grumble and just when Lestrade thought he wouldn’t answer, there was a mutter, “My brother. Brother dear, this is Detective Inspector George—”

“Greg! My name is _Greg—_ ”

“Lestrade.”

There was a long pause before the man in the chair shifted. “Forgive his manners, they’re always at its worst when he’s being _difficult_. Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh… So…” He stepped forward and held out his hand, seeming to surprise the older brother. “I don’t think we’ve ever met in person.”

As Mycroft took his hand, Sherlock asked from behind, “When have you ever met him at all?”

“Well someone has a tendency to disappear on us and John has to call someone. We’ve spoken once or twice on the phone when we’re looking for you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Not just that, I don’t think.”

“Okay, fine, we’ve spoke before John came into the picture, but we’ve only ever talked on the phone.”

Mycroft stood up as he released his hand and he couldn’t help making a surprised sound. Both Holmes men looked at him. “What?”

“Oh, I just didn’t think… You’re a bit taller than Sherlock, aren’t you?”

“Why does that make any difference?” Sherlock demanded from behind him, sounding irritated.

Greg looked at the perpetually childish man. “It doesn’t, it was just an observation. I thought you liked those.”

There was a snort of disgust thrown his way before he noticed Sherlock’s eyes had rested in contemplation of his brother. Deciding he wasn’t ready to be in the middle between them, he said, “So since you just called me here for a lark, can I go now?”

“No, of course not. You have to arrest him.”

“For God’s Sake, Sherlock, I’m not arresting your brother!”

“Maybe he’d like it,” the younger sibling said in a sulky fashion, eying Mycroft. “…No, probably not. It’d probably be the other way around. Fancy being handcuffed, Lestrade?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft warned in a dark, dangerous voice.

Where the hell was John? He hadn’t seen Sherlock in such a foul mood in a long time and it had to have been something to do with the doctor. “Are you honestly going to even suggest…”

“I thought that’s what people always did when they see two men together.”

“Sherlock, what is this about? Where’s John?”

Finally those blue gray eyes turned away and his sulking became even more pronounced. “He’s not here. He’s with a… _friend_ of his.”

There was a pause before Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. “Sherlock, jealousy is beneath you.”

“Wait, jealousy?”

Mycroft met Lestrade’s bewildered eyes. “It’s clear that a friend of John’s, obviously male, came to see him. Someone must have made a comment to Sherlock after they’d left about the state of their relationship, leading him to sulk in a jealous rage.”

“But… Sherlock…” Lestrade stared at Sherlock. “You should know that John only ever thinks about you—”

The great detective surged to his feet and paced. “Of course I know that!”

This was far too much for his pay grade. “You know what, I’m going to leave all this mess for John to clean up and go back to catching criminals. They’re easier.”

“Take my brother with you, if you’re leaving.”

Lestrade gave a slightly pleading look at Mycroft. If the man didn’t leave with him now, he’d only be harassed by texts all day about it. The tall man seemed to barely resist the urge to roll his eyes and stepped out with him in silence, swinging his umbrella once and then hooking it on his arm. As they headed down the stairs, Lestrade couldn’t help but ask curiously, “So…Mycroft.” A flicker of eyes in his direction told him he had the man’s attention. “How do you feel about…it?”

Not surprising of the Holmes men, Mycroft seemed to deduce what it was that he was asking. “While I personally view such things as dangerous, Sherlock is not quite as adept as I am about withholding myself from people. John is no danger to him, though, so I have no objections.”

He fished his keys out of his pocket as Mycroft opened the door to the backseat of a black car in front of his. “You know, in some ways, I think Sherlock is really lucky.”

That paused the man. “What?”

He looked up and grinned cheekily at Mycroft. “I don’t think he realizes how well he’s loved.”

There seemed to be the slightest of tension in the tall man’s shoulders. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, wasn’t it you that sent me information on those gay hate crimes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 Mycroft got into the backseat, but Greg only called after him, “Nice to meet you, Mycroft Holmes!”

\--

Though he spoke once with Mycroft since their initial meeting face to face, the next time he saw Mycroft in person was entirely unexpected. He stared as he opened his door, tie incomplete and his suit jacket nearby. “…What are you doing here?”

“I was informed you needed a…partner for a function.”

Greg looked Mycroft up and down, in his impeccable suit that was, frankly, just a bit more formal since the last time he’d seen him and good enough to eat. Yeah, he had to go to the ‘party’ thrown by the department and yeah, it was a black tie event, but… “…So what are you doing here?”

There was a heavy, heavy sigh. “Some time ago due to a most embarrassing incident that I shall _not_ relate, I owed Sherlock a…favor.” There was such distaste to the word that he knew that whatever Sherlock had done, it was big for Mycroft to even utter the word. “You were complaining about going alone and he told me that in return for what he had done, I was to accompany you to the party.”

Was this some kind of joke? If it was, it wasn’t on Mycroft’s end. “But—”

As if knowing what he was about to ask, Mycroft interrupted. “He expressly forbid me from having Anthea, or anyone else, take my place. My only hope at this point is if you decline my company. You _will_ decline, I trust?” Mycroft raised his eyebrow almost demanding that he do so.

To be honest, he considered it. No one should be forced to go to these things; he should know because he was being forced…but misery loved company and he wasn’t going to turn down the chance to have someone to commiserate with. “No, not now that you’re here. Let me get my jacket.”

The look on Mycroft’s face was priceless, but he dared not laugh. He didn’t know how the man would take it, possibly have him killed. Like a gentleman, Mycroft waited on the steps outside of his flat for him. A car was waiting, naturally, and he locked the door as he stepped out.

“Wait.”

Greg stopped and he blinked as he suddenly felt hands grab his tie. He’d somehow gotten a nasty knot in the material and hadn’t been able to get it out in a few seconds. He hadn’t wanted to leave Mycroft waiting, so he’d been determined to fix it in the car. Mycroft had other plans, however. He had expertly released the knot and rather than let Greg do it himself, had completed his tie in a few seconds.

“…Thanks,” he said, just a little stunned.

Mycroft nodded elegantly, but there was a sense of warmth and resignation in the man that kept it from seeming cold and distant. Before he could even lift his arm, Mycroft himself had opened the back door to the car for him. Did this ever feel like a date… He tried to shake the random thought off, but only succeeded in shoving it to his subconscious. As the door closed and the tall man sat beside him, he asked, “So what’s Sherlock’s game?”

There was a heavy sigh as the car pulled away from the curb. “Sherlock is merely being a petulant child as usual.”

“He usually has more of a reason than that,” Greg argued, not willing to sell his friend short.

There was a grimace and Mycroft looked out the window instead of at the detective. “I believe that his favor consisted of his desire to see me uncomfortable, as I hate all manner of such functions despite them requiring my attention on a consistent basis. He would also find it highly amusing that your partner is male. It is all a great joke by the great Sherlock Holmes.”

 Greg eyed him and while he got the sense that there was just a little something more that Mycroft wasn’t willing to reveal, he decided he wouldn’t push it right then considering he had stolen the man’s only way out away. “Right… Well, I’m at least glad you’re here.”

That caught the politician’s attention and the same grayish eyes that Sherlock had turned to look at him. “Why?”

“At least I’ll have someone to talk to.”

“Aren’t your colleagues going to be there?”

“Some, but not ones I’m close to.”

Mycroft nodded slowly, as if that was something he could understand to some extent. “Were you planning on attending without a companion?”

“Well, yeah. Been divorced for two years now, not like I had anyone else to go with, so when you showed up, I thought, why not? It’s someone to talk to.”

A small smile touched the tall man’s lips, much to his surprise and he couldn’t help appreciate the action for a bit. “I shall endeavor to make it an interesting evening for you then, to the best of my ability.”

“Why?”

“Because I understand intimately how boring such functions can truly be and there were times that I wished for exactly what you want.”

Lestrade grinned. “Great. Glad to hear it.”

-0-

Greg really tried not to smile, but it was hard. Mycroft kept up a running commentary under his breath about everyone. While normally he wasn’t interested in the details of other people’s lives, it seemed as if Mycroft was choosing just to share observations that would be funny, unlike Sherlock who had no concept of what a _filter_ was.

About an hour in, he’d had a good amount to drink and was feeling positively tipsy and pleased. If his slight leaning against Mycroft’s arm bothered the politician, he didn’t show it. They had settled in a corner, leaning against the wall; well, he sort of was, of course Mycroft’s posture was perfect. “So what was all that about in the flat?” he couldn’t help but ask now that he was sufficiently inebriated enough to ask.

A devastating ginger eyebrow rose. “What do you refer to?”

“The time that Sherlock called me to arrest you. What was all that about?”

“What part do you not understand, Detective Inspector?”

Greg shrugged. “It’s Greg, and I don’t know, it just felt like there was so much…subtext going on over my head.”

Mycroft snorted a little. “Detective Inspector—”

“I’d really rather you call me Greg. We’ve been talking for years, comrades of a sort.”

“Comrades?”

At the stunned question, Greg grinned. “Well, what do you call partners that are in a never-ending war of keeping Sherlock in line?”

This time Mycroft actually laughed. “I take your point. Very well, Gregory.”

“You’re going to use the whole name?”

“I see nothing wrong with it.”

Greg shrugged and leaned more heavily, but it threw his balance off. Mycroft had little choice but to reach out around his waist to steady him and keep him up from just slipping down to the floor. “Would you like to sit?”

“Nah, I’m good here. You’re comfy.” For some reason, Mycroft seemed to stiffen just a little at their predicament. “Something the matter?”

“No.” Mycroft made another observation about a woman’s hair and Greg laughed a bit.

“You’ve got a girlfriend, Mycroft?”

There was a very long pause. “I would advise you to tread carefully, Gregory.”

At that, he straightened just a little and met the tall man’s eyes. He was tipsy, not drunk, and he could tell when it was something serious. “What?”

“Sherlock is not the only one that has…no specifications on gender.”

He blinked at that. “What, so you’re okay with guys too?”

Mycroft sighed and slipped his arm from around Greg’s waist, gesturing to the door and clearly intent upon leaving. They’d been there long enough, apparently, so they were allowed to leave without causing undue stress.

As they stepped out into the relatively clear hallway and headed for the main door, their eyes didn’t meet even as Mycroft continued to speak with the same detachment and emotional investment as if he was speaking of the weather. “Yes, I have no problems with men or women, Gregory. It is of my own choosing that I have no ‘goldfish’ on my arm, as Sherlock put it sometime back.” As they were outside the building, the night air closing in on them and waiting for the car, Mycroft turned to him. “You are attracted to me, that much is clear, but I would advise against even considering it. I am…a difficult man, moreso than you realize. Sherlock pales in comparison.”

He rubbed his head a bit, not even sure how they got onto the conversation. All he’d asked was if the man had had a girlfriend. Not that he was going to even attempt to lie and deny that he was attracted to the man since he’d seen him, and he did like the scheming man personally from their years of interaction, but he hadn’t really been prepared to contemplate it in depth… “So...boil it down for me.”

“…Sherlock was not entirely incorrect when he asked you in Baker’s Street whether you fancied being handcuffed. While I would not actually employ said handcuffs, the idea remains the same: I’m controlling, Gregory, and I trust you know what that would mean in bed.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “…Oh. You mean…”

“Yes. You would have to be prepared to be the submissive one.” Not one, but two cars slowed to a stop in front of them. “I brought this up not because you had any intention of doing anything now, but that I feel the need to stop it before it starts cause problems. If you are still…interested after learning this, then you know how to reach me. Anthea will take you home.”

It felt as if he’d been hit by Sherlock’s whirlwind and he was left gaping as Mycroft slid into the backseat of the first car and it drove off.

\--

“—strade.”

His head jerked up and he almost blushed at Sherlock and John staring at him. How long had they been in his office? “What are you two doing here?”

“If you were listening, you would know,” Sherlock told him, annoyed, and eyed him closely. He tossed a folder on Lestrade’s desk and he opened it cautiously. It was an old cold case that he _hadn’t_ given the detective, which means that Sherlock was stealing stuff again. He sighed, but it was almost always never worth arguing about. He’d learned to pick his battles over the years.

“Thanks.” Sherlock nodded and turned to go. In a split second, Greg decided it was time for _Sherlock_ to answer some questions. “Sherlock, wait.” The tall, willowy man paused and turned his head, quirking an eyebrow. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

There was a heavy sigh and the man dropped almost bonelessly onto a chair, followed by John a little less gracelessly, but normally at least. “What is it, Lestrade? Even you can understand—”

“About Mycroft.”

It was actually hilarious, seeing Sherlock screech to a stop. It was the one and only time he’d ever managed to surprise the man. “About…Mycroft?”

“Yeah. You sent him over for that party about two weeks ago, remember?”

“Of course I do. Was there a problem? I find that highly unlikely because while Mycroft is unbearable most days, he at least can handle something like that. He does it all the time.”

“No, the party was fine. It was actually a bit of fun.”

Sherlock drew back a bit in his chair, as if he’d slapped him. Apparently the word ‘fun’ and ‘Mycroft’ were never meant to be spoken of in connection with each other ever. Even John was looking downright shocked.

“Then what did you want to know?” the doctor asked, seeing that Sherlock wasn’t about to start talking soon.

“Well…”

Blue gray eyes widened in something close to unholy glee. “Oh…! Now that _is_ an interesting development.”

“...What did you just deduce now, Sherlock?” Greg asked with a sigh, secretly glad he didn’t have to actually say it.

“He gave you his warning speech, didn’t he?”

“Warning speech?”

Sherlock would never willingly leave John in the dark and happily explained, “My brother has avoided all attachments for years. His favorite phrase is ‘Caring is not an advantage’. He makes that abundantly clear without words, but this time he warned Lestrade because it’s not as simple as it was before. Whenever he feels _himself_ getting too close, he ‘warns’ the other party to stay away. Rather hypocritical of him.”

“So…he was being serious? I didn’t think he’d go for guys…”

“Mycroft doesn’t ‘go’ for anything. He has had a few sexual encounters over the years, but always only once, and always with strangers. That he feels attraction to you and it is clearly reciprocated is unnerving to him.” Sherlock tilted his head. “So what are you planning on doing?”

Greg leaned back in his chair. What was he going to do about it? Despite the occasional curious nature, he’d never actually acted on anything in regards to men. He’d never felt the pressing need to and he wasn’t like Mycroft that could just do it without it being someone he cared about. In that respect, he and John were similar. He didn’t think John would ever land himself in bed with someone he didn’t care about either. They were probably of a dying breed.

“I think I’ll give him a call,” he decided at last.

Mycroft he did care about. While he didn’t know what the man himself thought about their relationship, Greg had viewed them as friends over the years, bonding over their frustrated love and hate with Sherlock. They had done all they could to mitigate the self-harm and behaviors that caused him to get in trouble, and John had taken Sherlock the rest of the way. With the doctor in the picture, neither had to be quite as worried as before since there didn’t seem to be the same edge that could just tip Sherlock back into the depths.

“Lestrade.”

“What?” He looked at Sherlock, noting that the man was staring at him with deadly seriousness.

“Are you serious about this?”

“What do you mean?” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not about to just fuck him and go if you’re concerned about that.”

“…No, that would make it easier.” The detective stood and paced as if he were a lion in a cage. “Mycroft has avoided emotional attachments since we were children. He is incapable of…” With coat flaring dramatically at the sudden turn, Sherlock spun to face him. The look in his eyes was cold, calculating, and intimidating. So rarely did Greg see that and when he did, he could understand why Donovan had insisted for so long that he was a psychopath. There was a fervent urgency in his eyes, the same when John was in danger, but none of the panic. In a way, it reminded him of Mycroft and how he became cold and terrifying when he spoke to someone that had hurt Sherlock. He had spoken to one of Sherlock’s suppliers years ago when they’d finally worked with him to kick the habit and had heard what Mycroft had been like on a _personal visit_.

“Sherlock?” John asked cautiously.

“I will say this once and only here, since Mycroft hasn’t put the bugs back in your office that I removed a week ago.”

“Wait, bugs—”

“I know more ways to cause pain, dismember, and hide a body than you can ever imagine. Hurt Mycroft, and I will use _all_ of them.”

“Sherlock!”

Was this seriously happening? This was the man that insisted he hated his brother was now as protective of him as Mycroft was of Sherlock. “Do you honestly think _I_ can hurt him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock told him flatly. “The only person who can hurt him worse…is me.”

It was said as a statement of fact and Greg knew that that was absolutely true. He had been around, spoken with Mycroft on the phone, for years during their struggle against Sherlock’s addictions. Mycroft’s love for him was abundantly clear and whenever the detective had repudiated his feelings, thrown invective at him, it hurt his older brother. He had never said so, but Greg had noticed in their conversations since John had showed up that Mycroft had slowly sounded more at ease and relaxed, slightly happier.

“I’m not going to hurt him, Sherlock. I’ve dealt with you for years, I think I can handle Mycroft.”

“Mycroft isn’t like me, Lestrade. I’m easier.”

“ _You’re_ easier?” John said in disbelief.

“Yes. While most people are dull and stupid and can’t figure it out on their own, I at least _tell_ you how I feel most of the time. Can you think of one time that Mycroft has? That you have ever seen his expression falter?” In the silence that followed, Sherlock stalked to his desk. “I have given you warning, Lestrade. I’m not going to stop you…but I will be watching.”

How ironic. It was the exact same from those many years ago that he’d talked with Mycroft on the phone for the first time after he’d met Sherlock, and he could only marvel how far Sherlock had come that he’d make his familial love clear, even when Mycroft wasn’t around to hear it. They were the oddest ones he’d ever met, but they were _definitely_ brothers.

Suddenly Greg smiled. “Good, because I could use your help.”

The intensity of the room eased a bit as Sherlock tilted his head in cautious confusion. “You always need my help, Lestrade.”

“No, I mean with this. You know Mycroft better than anyone else alive.”

“Of course.”

“So you can help me if you see I’m going to make a huge mistake. I’m not saying intervene, but help me to at least understand where I’m going wrong if I fuck up.”

Sherlock rocked on the balls of his feet a little, thinking about this. He knew that the man loved being right and pointing out all the things people missed, but it also meant that he’d have to be part of Mycroft’s life more often. His eyes flickered to John, who merely looked back and shrugged as if to say ‘up to you’. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he sighed, “Fine. I know if I say no, John will try to help anyway.”

“Good. Now…what’s his address?”

\--

Lestrade refused to admit that he was nervous as he waited on the stoop. The house was expensive, and big, and he was expecting an irate butler or someone like that storming up to the door. Instead, it was silence and he was beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. His little impromptu visit, which Sherlock had downright gleefully encouraged him to do, had been unplanned and perhaps not one of the better things to do to a man that ran the British government.

After a minute, he heard footsteps approaching and the door was opened, the silent ‘yes?’ in the air so loud it was like a scream. Mycroft himself had answered the door, wearing slacks still from his suit, but his shoes had been put away and the cravat and jacket were missing, leaving the white shirt underneath with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Even his tie was gone. “…Detective Inspector…?” Mycroft said, but the stunned tone of voice told him that he’d had one up on the normally smart man.

“Greg, remember?” Mycroft nodded silently. “Can I come in?”

There seemed to be a long minute of consideration and finally Mycroft stepped aside. “I’m reasonably sure that my brother has not managed to kill himself in the last few hours since I stepped away from the CCTV, so I feel it prudent to ask why you’ve come.”

Greg closed the door behind him, watching the tall man’s back as he led him into a sitting room. There was a book on a table next to a chair and a cup of scotch by the smell, ice melting in it, so clearly he’d just interrupted Mycroft’s time relaxing. “Sherlock told me where you lived.”

“I assumed so, yes, otherwise you never would have made it this far.”

He grinned in amusement. “He gave me the ‘hurt Mycroft and I torture you’ speech.”

Mycroft looked over at him, cup lifted to his lips, and cocked his head. “Gregory.” His eyes narrowed as he was clearly putting some pieces together. “Why have you come?”

“Don’t you already know?” Sensing the atmosphere become a bit cooler, he held up his hands in apology. “Look, I was thinking about what you said the last time we talked. I was…going to take you up on your offer, but there’s something I have to clear up.”

“…And what is that?”

“I’m not in this for a quick fuck. I don’t do that kind of thing with anyone.”

“You’re here to determine if what we spoke of included a relationship and not just sex.”

He nodded and watched as the lighting of the room cast shadows on Mycroft’s face. “I’m sure Sherlock has told you of my…past excursions.”

“Yeah, and I’m not like that. Isn’t that what made this difficult? We’re talking about dates, talking about each other, that kind of thing. Are _you_ sure about it?” Mycroft peered into the depths of his drink, listening to the ice clinking against the glass. Greg stalked up and put his hand over the top of the cup, forcing their eyes to meet. “ _Mycroft_.” There was still silence and then it dawned on him “…You need time to think about this?” For all that Mycroft had asked him if he was sure about it all back then, now he wondered if that question had been more directed at himself.

“…Yes.”

“Okay. I’m going to head home now, but you’ve got my number. Call me if you need me.”

“I will.” For a brief minute, Greg felt fingers brush over his hair and face, almost a phantom touch, before the man walked him to the front door. “I will be in touch.”

Though Greg honestly wanted to know what those lips tasted like, he could see by virtue of having spent so much time Sherlock that Mycroft was discomforted. No, he’d give him his time at the very thought of letting someone intimately in his life when he was sure the only people that had ever gotten so close to him were his family. “Mycroft, just one thing,” he said before the door closed.

“Was there something else?”

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Sherlock when he became overprotective of you,” and here those eyes widened just a little in surprise, “I’m not going to hurt you. Promise.” He jogged back to his car and blessed Sherlock that was probably the only reason he hadn’t been shot by a sniper just going to the front door. He glanced back at the house as he settled behind the wheel and stared for a minute as Mycroft remained for a long moment, watching, before he slowly closed the door.

\--

“Why are we here?” Sherlock complained, more like whined, but John merely jabbed his elbow into his side. Greg grinned a little watching them. It was Molly’s birthday and as soon as work had been finished, they’d cleared a place in his office for a small party. He wasn’t sure whose phone it was that was playing music, but Molly was having a fantastic time dancing with anyone she could convince to. It was probably the happiest he had ever seen the woman.

“Oh enjoy it,” Greg told him and grinned at the disgruntled expression.

There was a knock on the closed door and Donovan threw it open, only to pause. “…Don’t I…”

“Mycroft! You’re actually _late_.”

Greg blinked and stared at the man in his impeccable suits, dark blue today and familiar umbrella on his arm. He hadn’t seen the elder Holmes brother in three weeks and not a word. He’d promised to give the man some space and so he had, but it hadn’t stopped him from randomly texting him just simple words about his day, occasional complaints about his job or about how good his coffee tasted. It was the only way that he knew to show Mycroft that being in a relationship included small things like that and it wasn’t such a scary thing.

“Sherlock, my schedule is _very_ busy.” A matching pair of blue gray eyes narrowed. “It appears as if I’ve interrupted a celebration. We will speak later.”

“Oh, come on in, the more the merrier!” Molly said, gesturing for him to come in.

Sherlock met Greg’s eyes deliberately and he knew that the younger brother had done it on purpose. He smiled a little. Sherlock was clearly still wary at the current development, but willing to help if it made his brother…better. It could only be John’s influence, particularly now that they had acknowledged their feelings for each other and were ‘officially’ lovers.

“No, I’m afraid I must decline—”

Greg grinned and reached out from his position of leaning against his desk, grabbing Mycroft’s wrists. He had to wonder just how often the man was touched when he felt an instinctive twitch under his fingertips. The two brothers let only very few actually touch them apparently, as he knew how vocal Sherlock could be if he was touched or manhandled by anyone other than John, himself, and oddly Mycroft. “Come on, it’s a birthday party. Enjoy yourself, you’re welcome here. Molly says so.”

Their gaze met seriously, but there was no answer in those shuttered blue eyes, so Greg told himself once again for what felt like the millionth time to be _patient_. As patient as John was with Sherlock. He was learning all over that there was a very specific way to handle the Holmes brothers and rushing or getting irritated or angry was _not_ it.

“For a few minutes. I had to quickly make time, as I was under the impression that there was something of great importance.” He glared at Sherlock, who looked back at him and shrugged. Why did Greg have a feeling he had pulled what he had with Lestrade so many months ago by making it seem like he needed help in the worst way? And anyone who knew Sherlock and Mycroft knew very well that Mycroft would have dropped everything he was doing if he thought his little brother needed him for anything.

They watched Molly and a few of the other officers dance before those brown eyes twinkled at a target. “John!”

John looked up from his can of soda. “Yeah?”

The doctor’s hands were grabbed and tugged into the space cleared away for dancing, Sherlock only making a slight sound of distress. Even now, after their relationship as lovers had been settled for at least two months, Sherlock was still highly possessive of John…well, moreso than before and that had always been considerable. A song with a quick beat, one that he recognized had been on the top-songs list considering he heard it everywhere now, flooded from the phone’s speaker.

Sherlock’s eyes were glued to John’s movements. He wasn’t exactly graceful in the most conventional sense, and there was a look of embarrassment on his face despite his smile, yet he continued. He spun Molly around and his embarrassment seemed to ease as he realized no one was judging him. Greg blinked as he watched Mycroft, next to him, lean over and whisper something in Sherlock’s ear. There was a twitch of an eye and then suddenly the consulting detective had stepped forward and very gracefully stepped between the two dancers, managing to get both their hands in one of his each and spinning them at the same time.

He gracefully handed Molly over to Donovan and Greg felt his jaw drop a bit to match John’s stunned expression as Sherlock perfectly began to dance in time with the song. The other dancers slowly backed up, giving them a circle. John seemed even a bit less graceful now than before, but it didn’t seem to matter because he never made a misstep thanks to Sherlock. Greg wondered if Sherlock was accounting for every step John took, knew him so well that he knew exactly how the former soldier would move before his mind could catch up. He spun him around, their footsteps in complete alignment to the beat of the music.

“Did…you know…”

“Of course,” Mycroft said coolly, but there was pride glowing out of his eyes as he watched his brother and lover. “Sherlock is the best dancer I have ever seen.”

As the song ended and another followed it up, Sherlock met Greg’s eyes and nodded at Mycroft. Seeing what he wanted, the D.I. hesitated. He didn’t want to push Mycroft into anything and he didn’t think the older man would be comfortable dancing with anyone, much less in front of a bunch of people that were, in essence, complete strangers to him. Sherlock frowned at him and muttered something to his partner. John glanced over and nodded. Before he could react, the willowy man had spun John closer to the pair near the desk and he kicked at the umbrella still loosely held in the man’s hand.

John quickly grabbed it and tossed it Sherlock. Greg cast a glance at the oldest Holmes in concern, but there was only a faint look of amusement near his lips. Chances are, if he hadn’t wanted to let go of it, he could have prevented the doctor from grabbing the umbrella. “What are you doing, Sherlock?”

Sherlock spun the umbrella in his hand and then tossed it over the heads of the circle of people opposite of where his brother was. “You figure it out. Lestrade.”

Greg sighed and whispered, “Sorry” under his breath before he pulled Mycroft forward to the dance floor. Mycroft stiffened once he was in the center and he knew that no amount of tugging would make that tower of steel move, and no one even dare try…except for one.

Sherlock glared and grabbed his brother’s hands. “Don’t ruin her birthday. John said birthdays are important.” Mycroft’s eyes flickered to Molly, watching intently, then to John and it seemed as if that was all that was needed because he allowed Sherlock to tug him into moving. Someone, maybe John, had reset the song to the original he and his partner had danced to.

Mycroft moved like he was highly self-conscious, but Sherlock was clearly not taking no for an answer. In some ways, it was almost as if they were still silently fighting even as they moved together. Not surprisingly there were no missteps and he had to wonder if that was because both were so smart they were ten moves ahead or if they just knew what the other would do because of their relationship. Greg stepped back, readying to go back to his position of leaning against the desk when Sherlock spun his brother just a bit and it was almost as if the detective had thrown him at Lestrade because suddenly the tall man had his hands on his arms and it was _him_ that was being spun around.

There were whoops and cat-calls from his staff and Donovan was grinning evilly. He blushed and glared, too old to be dancing, yet here he was. He was never going to hear the end of it. As if sensing what would happen if he stopped, Sherlock remained dancing because if he didn’t, Mycroft would certainly flee. Lestrade steeled his spine, filled with a deep desire to see Mycroft have some fun. To show the man that had never known anything other than award ceremonies and the like that all parties weren’t like that. As rhythmic clapping began around them, he kept his eyes locked with the politician.

Mycroft’s gaze remained on his, not even fighting it and really, if the man was concerned about his dancing, he shouldn’t have been. He was a different dancer than Sherlock who could probably do a waltz the same perfect way he did break dancing if he wanted, but that didn’t mean that he was bad. He was still graceful despite his size and slightly heftier build than his brother. Only peripherally did he notice that Sherlock and John had bowed out of the dance area, leaving just the two of them.

As the song began to come to close, for the first time, Lestrade watched a bit of mischief come into Mycroft’s eyes. In a massive flourish, he spun the D.I. and that morphed amazingly smoothly into a deep dip. Suddenly his view of the ceiling was obstructed by the handsome face of Mycroft Holmes. Without warning their lips met and the hand on the base of his spine, which was the only one holding him up and that testified at how strong Mycroft actually was, burned against his nerves. It was…amazing and he could feel that tongue teasingly touch his lips, but before he could allow it entry, it had disappeared. He leaned up into the kiss with a soft moan, one hand threading into red hair instinctively.

Mycroft pulled him up and he stumbled as he was suddenly standing on his own. He wasn’t sure how or who had brought it to him, but the umbrella was in the elder Holmes’ hand and he twirled with every bit of dramatic flair as Sherlock’s coat before sitting it on his arm, straightening his suit, and leaving the room with panache under everyone’s stunned eyes. Behind him, Greg heard Sherlock comment in the silence, “Show off.”

\--

Greg was on Mycroft’s doorstep as soon as the small birthday party had broken up, Molly spending the last of it opening presents. He shifted from foot to foot and counted the seconds until the door opened. Mycroft had changed into what appeared to be a loose pair of pants and shirt, and amazingly a dressing gown like Sherlock was so fond of. He raised an eyebrow in question and the politician answered with an amused smile, “A gift from John. I believe it was meant to be a joke.”

“Well it works,” he replied as Mycroft stepped aside to let him in.

“What brings you here, Gregory? It’s fairly late.”

He rolled his eyes. Did Mycroft really not know or was he deliberately making him say it? “I wanted to know where we are now, what with that kiss.” And was it really okay that Mycroft had kissed him like that in front of everyone?

“It was an impulsive action, something that I try never to engage in. I find myself full of impulsive thoughts regarding you.”

“Do any of those thoughts revolve around a relationship?”

Mycroft settled in his chair, the same one he’d been in the first time Greg had been there weeks ago. “…I enjoyed your texts the last few weeks.”

“You never replied.”

“I dislike texting.” It was like pulling teeth, but Greg reminded himself once again to be patient. Finally Mycroft spoke again and the question was like dumping cold water on him. “If I said I needed more time, would you give it to me?”

How much time was more time, he wanted to ask, but wouldn’t. It almost didn’t seem fair when it was Mycroft who had brought up this whole situation months ago, but as much as he’d be disappointed, he would do it, because the Holmes men were special and for certain people, namely himself and John, they were worth waiting for.

“Yes.”

That critical gaze had watched him the entire time and he was sure that somehow, Mycroft had deduced every thought that had gone through his head. It was either that, or he was psychic and that would explain a lot if he was, he thought dryly. “Come here, Gregory.”

He came closer to the chair, wishing he’d thought to change at least, but he had gone straight to Mycroft’s house after work and the party. Lean fingers wrapped around his wrist and tugged, and the detective inspector obeyed, sliding into the tall man’s lap. His restraint broke, wanting to taste those lips again so badly, but their kiss was soft as he tried to rein his passion back.

There was a nip to his lip as Mycroft silently told him not to do that and suddenly they were kissing like madmen. He felt hands grip his rear possessively and this time he felt a tongue ease its way into his mouth. They had time now and at least the politician wasn’t going to tease him. Greg tugged the robe open, touching his neck firmly.

When the kiss broke, they were both panting. “Mycroft Holmes, do you have to be perfect in everything you do?”

Mycroft smirked at him, running his thumb over Greg’s bottom lip. “For you? Yes.”

“I thought you asked for more time.”

“I asked if I said I needed more time, would you give it to me. I never said I needed more time.”

Was that a test? It seemed like something he or Sherlock would do, to see if the other person was really serious because he had never met anyone that could lie to either of them successfully. They asked to be sure their prospective partners were serious, didn’t they? “Sherlock does love you, you know.”

Mycroft blinked at the abrupt shift in topic. “…I know.”

“You do? Nobody would blame you if you didn’t think so, with how he talks to and about you.”

“Sherlock is…different. I know what he means and I’m aware of his feelings. He will never tell me he loves me and he will never thank me, but I know he feels both.” Mycroft seemed so confident in it, as if he’d never been hurt by anything Sherlock had ever done, but Greg figured that hurt had to come from somewhere in his past. With any luck, he might have the chance to find out.

“So…dating now?”

There was a heavy sigh. “I will not have you going into this believing this will be a smooth transition.”

“I know, trust me. I know that it’s going to be rocky and you don’t like talking about emotions and all that. I’m prepared for it. Are you?”

“…As best as I can be.”

“Good. Now…do you want me to go since we’ve gotten all this settled? We both know where this is going if I stay.”

Mycroft’s eyes darkened in promise. “I want you to stay.”

Greg smiled. “Good. I wanted to stay too.”

After another deep kiss, his new boyfriend muttered, “He’ll be insufferable for weeks now.”

“Who?”

“Sherlock.”

That stumped him. “Why?”

The answer only further confused him. “Goldfish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the dancing scene was pretty much pure crack. I wanted to write it so I did. The song I was listening to and wrote it to was Counting Stars by OneRepublic if anyone wanted to know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Worksafe

Mycroft watched Lestrade—no, Greg’s confused expression at that one word and he idly ran his hand down the man’s arm. He was absolutely convinced that entering a relationship was a _very_ bad idea, for any number of reasons. Their work schedules were hectic, particularly Mycroft’s, and he was liable to be sent out the country at very little notice. There would be a lot of canceled dinners because of it. There was also the concern that by dating Greg, it would make him a target for Mycroft’s enemies. Perhaps most important of all was that if things went wrong once they’d make that final leap, he’d be left… Mycroft internally frowned at himself for the word, but couldn’t find a reasonable alternative. He’d be heartbroken and he wasn’t entirely sure if he could perform his duties satisfactorily if he was.

“What are you thinking about?”

He blinked, drawn from his thoughts and he realized he’d been lightly rubbing his knuckles along Greg’s arm for a good five minutes without a word. “Many things,” he replied instinctively.

Yet here he was, having _agreed_. He had fallen for those eyes, for the honor and more importantly honesty, that was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. How many years had he been craving that first kissed they’d shared in his office earlier that day? In truth, even as smart as he was, he hadn’t noticed that need was there until it was too overpowering to ignore. Maybe…maybe he hadn’t wanted to notice. He’d always accused Sherlock of being the dense one, particularly when he’d manipulated his younger brother into doing something about his feelings after John had confessed. He didn’t consider himself dense for not noticing if his mind had actually noticed and deliberately blocked it out.

“Come on, Myc, please tell me?”

His eyes flashed. “Mycroft.”

He appreciated Greg even more when the man just nodded at his correction. “No nickname, got it. So?”

Mycroft sighed heavily and he couldn’t even say how uncomfortable it was to put his true feelings into words when they weren’t related to his little brother. He looked into his cup of scotch on the table near him and tried not to shiver when Greg, clearly choosing a different method of interrogation, began to kiss down his neck with little butterfly touches.

How could he possibly resist? He bit the inside of his cheek to keep the moan in, his eyes instinctually fluttering when Greg found a sensitive spot where his shoulder met his neck. “Hey, don’t do that,” was the rumbled statement from the man in his lap, vibrations echoing on Mycroft’s skin as he spoke without lifting his mouth. “You can let it out.”

“I hope you are not requiring me to be hyena in bed,” he commented.

Finally Greg lifted his head and looked him in the eye. “No, you are who you are, but you don’t have to hold it in either if you want to make a noise. I saw you bite your cheek.”

Really, Greg was far more observant than Sherlock gave him credit for. “Does it matter in the end?”

“Well…yeah.” His eyebrow rose, silently inviting the detective to elaborate. “It’s not because I want you to make a ton of noise, that I need you to in order to be happy, but that I want you to be relaxed enough around me that you can. That’s what it’s about, Mycroft. It’s about being comfortable with me, seeing a more intimate side of you; what’s _beneath_ those three-piece suits. It’s about trust that you can relax and know that I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

Mycroft, ignoring the burgeoning lust going through him at having Greg still sitting in his lap, studied him. Did he trust Greg? With Sherlock’s very _life_ , yes, and that was as most trust that anyone had ever, ever asked Mycroft to give. With how much he loved the prat of a little brother he had, it was the highest form of compliment and only two people had ever achieved it: John and Greg. Did he trust Greg with his own heart, though? It was not entirely the same thing, because he’d be shattered and unable to look after Sherlock if something went wrong. He couldn’t let anything happen that would threaten Sherlock, including himself.

“Mycroft, please, you’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking.”

He sighed, letting his head rest against of the back of his chair. Like a pot left on the stove, his arousal was burning low, but steady in his veins. It was just a hum, but it was distracting. Mycroft, however, wasn’t going to lie to himself and say that it was distracting enough that that was the reason he answered Greg’s question. No, that was solely put to the fault of these _feelings_ he had slowly developed over time for the detective. “I’m…concerned about giving you…the trust you ask for. If something went wrong, beyond my—our control and I was…hurt, it could cause me to lose focus and Sherlock could be hurt.”

Greg blinked and Mycroft hoped he knew that that was all he was going to get right then. “Mycroft…not everything is about Sherlock. Besides, if you were really hurt by something, I can guarantee that Sherlock would help you pick up the pieces. He’d be there to help you through it…in his own way.”

He gave the man a patented disbelieving look, an expression he’d perfected since he was nine. “You clearly have more faith in him than I do.”

“Well…I might have asked for his help.” Mycroft stiffened and Greg felt it. “It’s _not_ what you think.”

“And what do I think, Gregory?”

“That this is all some kind of elaborate prank from Sherlock.” Mycroft resisted shifting, but his expression clearly said that Greg had gotten it right. “I only asked him for help because he knows you better than anyone on this planet. You’re so good at _not_ telling or showing how you feel that I asked him if he’d at least be around to point out if I’ve made a _colossal_ mistake. If I know what I did wrong, then I can find a way to fix it. Because I’m going to make mistakes, I can’t promise you I won’t.”

He relaxed minutely before sighing. “I can’t either. However, I do not have such a lifeline as you.”

“What about John? If you get really stumped and can’t figure it out, it isn’t as if you don’t have friends.”

He smiled just a little in amusement and lightly nudged Greg off his lap so he could stand. “I believe John doesn’t care for me much, after all I’ve done.”

“I think you underestimate his power to forgive…and his capacity for which he can tolerate Holmes-shit,” Greg said with a grin. “Besides, he’s dating Sherlock. That kind of means you’re family to him now.”

“Does it.”

Greg stepped closer to him, lightly tugging at the belt that was holding the dressing gown closed. “Yeah.” There was another cheeky grin on his face and Mycroft was certain he was being teased when he said, “Want to make a bet?”

“What bet?” he asked, running his knuckles over Greg’s jaw. There was just the lightest bit of stubble there.

“In a year, who do you think will be married first, them or us?”

He smirked and chuckled, finding his fingers moving without his conscious control to pull the detective close to him. “Planning so far ahead?” He leaned in and deliberately left a passionate, open-mouthed kiss right under Greg’s ear. He felt the whole body shudder, memorized the quiet, heavy gasp that escaped. “Sherlock and John.”

“W-What?”

Mycroft’s smirk only widened as Greg blinked furiously. Had he unknowingly found a highly sensitive spot? That he would not forget. It seemed a wonderful way to make Greg forget something Mycroft didn’t really want him remembering…or a lovely distraction. “Sherlock and John. Sherlock can only last so long before he’d seek a legal way to tie John to him even more than he already is now. You _know_ how possessive he is.”

“Yeah, but I think you’re pretty possessive yourself.” God, how Mycroft found that cheeky grin irritating and adorable at the same time. It took ten years off Greg’s life and made him look so much younger. Those hands had grabbed both ends of the belt and began to tug him forward, walking backward.

“Where are you going?” he asked in amusement, allowing himself to be moved.

“Well, I figure that there’s got to be a bedroom somewhere and it’s probably up the stairs.” There was a sharp yank, making Mycroft stumble just a little, and suddenly their lips were meeting in a crash of passion. He felt Greg’s tongue lightly tapping his lips and he gave in, letting his own meet its partner’s. It had more passion, more _life_ in it, than he’d felt in twenty years. It made his knees go weak and he barely resisted grabbing the nearby banister to keep himself steady. That simmering, burning arousal flared up as if someone had turned on the heat.

His hands slid down to grip Greg’s rear, startling a cute grunt out of his partner, and really, he had fallen so far that he was thinking the little noises the man made were _cute_ and _adorable_ and arousing as all hell. Hit with that same surge of spontaneity that had gripped him earlier, he shifted his hands down to Greg’s thighs and yanked him up off the ground.

“Woah, Mycroft!” The detective gripped his shoulders and wrapped his legs around the tall man’s waist.

Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea, he reflected as already his body was protesting. Greg was not a light man and he was in his forties by now. Most of his time was spent at a desk. Yet, rather than put him back down, he was determined to finish what he started, so he slid an arm around Greg’s waist and carried him up the stairs despite his back screaming at him that this was an insanely stupid idea.

“Aren’t you full of surprises?” Greg said with a grin, worry at its edges.

Mycroft didn’t want Greg to worry. He did enough for the both of them. So he asked, “And when I win the bet—”

“When?”

“—what shall I get?”

“You know, Mycroft, just because you’re a Holmes doesn’t mean you can’t be wrong.” Those lips began to mark up and down his neck and he blessed everything that they were near the top of the landing and his bedroom wasn’t more than a few steps away from there. “How about whoever wins, the other person has to do whatever they’re ordered to do. If I win, you have to do whatever I ask, and that includes if I want to go to a pub with you or a football game in a dirty stadium.”

He chuckled, out of breath because of the kissing and his own exertion. He headed right for the bedroom, opening it with his free hand and kicking it shut with the other. Not that there was anyone else to see them, but it was just an automatic action. Mycroft all but dropped them on the bed and groaned, both with relief and arousal as their hips rubbed together because of the movement. Immediately Mycroft latched their lips together.

“Well that was a first for me,” Greg muttered in between their open-mouthed kisses.

It was a stupid thing to do, but when he saw the laughter, the light, in Greg’s eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to say not to expect it again. It had surprised and pleased his partner and he found, for the first time, a craving in himself to make sure that Greg was pleased. That he was happy. Slowly his fingers found the buttons on Greg’s white shirt and took his time popping every one out of the hole. At every bit of skin revealed, he left small kisses behind. It almost amazed him at how easy Greg was to take apart because by the time he reached his waistline, the detective was a squirming, moaning mess.

“Already, Gregory?” he whispered in the man’s ear, leaving another, harder kiss under his ear. The effect was amazing. Greg arched his spine with a gasp and suddenly the tie on his robe was yanked, forcing it open.

“Stop…teasing!”

“It’s not teasing, it’s patience,” he replied with a smirk, slowly and tormenting opening his belt. His fingers hooked into the button of his slacks and he nipped at those lips flushed from their kissing.

Greg squirmed with more intention then, yanking his shirt and jacket off at the same time before he began tugging at his dressing gown. Mycroft lifted and stopped what he was doing long enough to discard it and remove his shirt before going back to what he was doing, lowering the zipper with exquisite care. He would never admit aloud just how much he enjoyed knowing the fact that it was because of _him_ that Greg was moving like this, feeling like this. It was a dizzying sense of power.

He hooked his fingers into the man’s pants and began tugging them down, taking his boxers with it. When he reached his ankles, he took his time as he untied the laces of Greg’s shoes. For one of the very few times in his life, he let the clothing and shoes just drop on the floor. He didn’t have the spare mental capacity to fold them or do anything else. The throbbing between his own legs was urging him on, to do more, to satisfy _more_.

“Mycroft,” Greg moaned his name as he took his time, leaving a trail of kisses up his legs. He left a small mark on the inside of Greg’s right thigh, taking great pleasure in doing so. As he moved further up, he kissed along that throbbing length, letting his tongue flick out and stroke along the tip of Greg’s arousal. He held those hips still as he wrapped his lips around that sensitive head and sucked lightly.

“Fuck!” Greg cursed, thrusting his hips up once. “You’re so…damn…good at this! Fuck, Sherlock!”

Mycroft blinked, freezing at hearing his brother’s name fall from Greg’s lips at such an intimate moment. “…Gregory, I really don’t think now is the time to bring up _my brother_. Or is there something you’d like to tell me?”

The detective panted heavily as the sensations ceased. “That…arse…lied.”

Now Mycroft was not usually one for being stumped, but this did confuse him. “What?”

Annoyed eyes met his. “He said you didn’t do this often enough to have a lot of experience.”

He tilted his head, bracing himself on his hands and looking down at Greg. “What makes you think he’s lying?”

“Come off it, Mycroft. Nobody with limited experience is _this good_.”

Before he could help it, Mycroft felt himself begin to smile. It was a true smile, one that he was so unused to having that it felt odd to his muscles. He leaned over, resting their foreheads together, almost purring, “Sherlock…was telling you the truth.”

“Bullshit.”

He kissed those lips, Greg moaning softly as he extended it until their lungs were almost bursting for air. “Sherlock has always known when I’ve had sex; I’ve never even bothered to hide it from him because he’d always find out regardless, and he knows exactly how many times I’ve done it. He was telling you the truth.” He nuzzled at that area just below Greg’s ear. “However awkward as it is to be talking about _Sherlock_ of all people when all I really want to do is fuck you into the mattress, I’m pleased to know that you enjoy what I’m doing.”

“…God, Mycroft, you move like a pro at this,” Greg groaned.

Mycroft headed back down and left a small kiss on that bundle of nerves that sent such pleasure through them before wrapping his lips around his lovely Gregory and sucked. Greg let out a shout, a hand immediately diving into his dark ginger hair. “Mycroft! Fuck!” If it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s hands, Greg would have been thrusting into his mouth, but he didn’t want to go that far just yet. “How…many times…have you done this? B-Blowjobs, I mean.”

He leaned back, letting his tongue stroke along that length as a long goodbye, and smirked. “This is my first time, thank you for asking.”

Greg stared at him, panting. “You’re…kidding, right? You’ve never…given a blowjob…before?”

“No.”

The detective’s head dropped back on the bed, eyes focused on the ceiling. “I don’t believe it. There’s got to be a fucking limit.”

Mycroft tilted his head and braced his hands on either side of his boyfriend’s head, forcing their eyes to meet. “Excuse me?”

“There has to be a fucking limit to how perfect someone, even a Holmes, can be!” A flush spread across Mycroft’s cheeks quite against his will. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, Mycroft, what the hell am I even doing here?”

“What are you talking about, Gregory?”

“I mean, you’re so damn perfect, Mycroft! I can’t even think when you touch me and I just…” He ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes anymore. “I’m older than you, hell I’ll be fifty this year, and I’ve been married for seventeen years before I got divorced. I’m rusty as hell at this, if I was ever that good to start with, and it’s not as if I wasn’t around the block a lot when I was younger. Yet here you are, this is your first damn time with this shit, and you’re _perfect_ at it. You know everything! What can I offer? What the hell am I even doing here?”

Mycroft couldn’t help but stare. The normally confident Gregory Lestrade seemed so vulnerable. Did he honestly think so poorly of himself? Was _he_ making him feel that way? All he’d wanted was to make Greg feel good, he’d been desperate about it, in fact. He’d wanted to please him and the best way he’d known how was just go by instinct. He’d done what his body—no, what _Greg’s_ body had been telling him to do. He had been focused, reading what every twitch of muscle had been screaming at him, and he’d done what Greg wanted.

“Gregory, listen to me,” he said seriously, using one hand to grip the older man’s chin and force their eyes to meet. “I have always believed you to be a most intelligent man despite the criticisms levied by Sherlock, but those were the stupidest words come out of your mouth that I have ever heard. I also refuse to listen to you until you start to talk sense, and don’t you ever dare say such things again. I will not stand for anyone, even yourself, saying such things about you.”

“Mycroft—”

“I know everything about what you want because _you_ are telling me.”

“I haven’t said a word!”

“You talk with more than your mouth, Gregory. I _watch_ you. I’ve always watched you before, and I do now. You’re speaking with your body and every time you move, every time you gasp, it’s like a conversation. I know what you want because you’re telling me. As for being perfect at it, do you imagine that I reached this point in our relationship with no knowledge? It may not be firsthand experience, but I’m aware of what happens and how it’s supposed to work.”

Surprisingly, he began to understand why Sherlock liked to explain things to John. Seeing the wide-eyed stare, the awe looking back at him, was as intoxicating as knowing that _he_ was making Greg aroused. At the same time, he was highly uncomfortable with continuing because they had moved on from the facts to how he felt. “Why are you here? Because I want you to be here. Because I enjoy your smile, even that cheeky grin of yours, and the way you laugh. I enjoy your honesty, your steadfast nature, and your loyalty. I admire your work ethic, your skill, and most of all, your dedication. Your kisses make my knees go weak and just thinking about you has my blood simmering with desire. I don’t care what age you are, only that you are _here_.” He smiled a little. “Lastly, you are _hardly_ rusty. I am not so easily weakened, Gregory, but just a simple twitch of your hips or your touch and I struggle not to lose control and just _take you_.” His voice dropped and grew husky, leaning down toward the lips that seemed to beckon him. “To not lose control and just take you, _right now_ , bury myself in your body and fuck you until you scream.”

“…Oh hell, Mycroft,” Greg groaned. “Please don’t make me any harder than I already am. That voice alone…”

He smirked and ran a single finger up and down that throbbing length. He deliberately spoke as he had before right into Greg’s ear. “One final thing, Gregory.” It took an inordinate amount of courage, drawing from the final reserve of strength he had left after that, but if he was going to go so far with talking about…how he felt, then he would do it completely. He refused to leave a job half done or done poorly. “I love you.”

For a moment, Greg froze and Mycroft licked at the shell of his ear. Then without warning his partner shifted, throwing Mycroft onto his back and straddling his hips. Mycroft stiffened, ready to argue, but the detective surprised him. There was something wild in his eyes, pupils blown with lust, and he said, “You carried me up here; don’t want to sprain your back, so this time let me do this.” He tugged Mycroft’s soft pants off, kicking them to the floor and seeming to smirk as he noticed that Mycroft had not worn underwear. “Has anyone ever ridden you before?”

“…No.”

“I’m not taking away your control, Mycroft,” Greg whispered. “If you don’t like it, we can stop. Just think of it as me taking care of you for a change.”

Mycroft traced his hands up and down Greg’s thighs and asked, “Do you have any lubricant? I’m afraid I didn’t expect this development tonight and am a little unprepared.”

“That a yes?” the detective asked with a grin. “Actually, yeah, I do.” He reached over for his jacket that was still on the bed and dived his hand into his pocket. “Believe it or not, Sherlock gave it to me before I headed here.”

He couldn’t help it. Mycroft began to laugh at that, even harder when he noticed that the brand and in fact, everything about it, was identical to the one that Sherlock had found when he’d been thirteen and rifling through his brother’s room. It wasn’t the fact that Sherlock remembered it, though that wasn’t surprising, but that his brother had gone out of his way to buy that particular one. Sherlock had made snide comments and teasing for six months back then. He would tease Sherlock later in return, but for now, he could only be pleased.

“What?”

“A story for another time,” he told his boyfriend and took the lubricant, squeezing it onto his fingers and sliding his hand around Greg’s waist. He stroked between his cheeks for a minute before gently pushing one finger inside. Greg moaned heavily, letting out a shaky breath, before leaning down. They shared a passionate kiss and Mycroft took the opportunity to plunder his boyfriend’s mouth of its riches once again. His other hand came up, twining in that short hair, and he moaned heavily when the detective began to lightly rock their hips together.

The pleasure shook his ironclad control enough that he slid a second finger inside his partner despite his previous intention to wait, draw out the preparation until Greg was begging. “Gregory,” he whispered when they broke apart to breathe, “do you believe me?”

Hazy eyes looked at him. “About what?”

“What I said. About you.”

A beautiful smile, one that melted his icy heart, stretched those lovely lips. With just that single action, Greg had shattered all his walls and defenses, leaving him feeling vulnerable and open. “Yeah, I do. So you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that you’re beautiful, don’t need a diet, and hotter than hell. How am I supposed to keep my hands off you now that I know what it’s like to touch you?”

His fingers paused for a moment before he moved them again, finding and deliberately pressing on Greg’s prostate fiercely, making the detective yell and arch into the pleasure. Mycroft stared, soaking in the image of desperation, of lust, of desire that was above him. It had to be true because Greg hadn’t taken his eyes off Mycroft. While he didn’t believe he was beautiful, he believed that Greg thought so and that was…enough. That was more than enough.

He couldn’t wait any longer and pulled his fingers away before lathering himself with the lubricant. “Are you ready, Gregory?”

“Yes! God yes, Mycroft!”

His hands gripped those hips, gently guiding them down. It took all his willpower not to just thrust up; instead, he took his time, being careful, because he _knew_ that this was a first time for his partner. He’d looked at Greg’s background long before, learned who he’d been with, and while he had seemed interested in men, had never actually done anything about it. So he took his time, listening to Greg’s sounds as his body stretched to accommodate his length. His fingers dug into those hips, the only sign of how badly he wanted to just thrust because the pressure was so intensely pleasurable.

“ _Fuck_ , Mycroft! Don’t…think you’ll fit…”

He smiled again, half-smirking, at the indirect compliment, but didn’t pause. He just continued to so slowly work him down until he heard a shout from Greg that shook his walls and a vicious clamping around him that made even Mycroft grunt heavily. He nudged, enjoying another shout and clench. So he’d hit his prostate then.

“You…are…God, Mycroft…”

Mycroft actually laughed at that and he saw Greg’s eyes spark with affection. “Why thank you, Gregory,” he purred, not moving again until he was sure that the flashes of pain across his partner’s features would cease to be.

“Mycroft, you gotta listen to me for a second, okay?”

He tilted his head. “Please tell me you are not about to confess that you have a crush on John. Sherlock might have an objection to that,” he teased.

“H-Hell no. John’s a good guy…but he’s not you.” Mycroft flushed at that, at the seriousness that Greg spoke. “ _I love you, Mycroft Holmes_. Not your power; not your name; not your money. And while you’re hot, a great bonus, not because of your looks. I love you, the person named Mycroft, that grew up being the overprotective big brother of Sherlock. The one that has trust issues, but was willing to try no matter if he was scared or not. You’re probably the bravest person I know and I love you.”

Something was shaken to his very core at those words. This moment must surely be a dream. Here was the weather-beaten, world-weary cop that had always been blunt and none too subtle telling him in no uncertain terms how he felt. He was completely open about it, said without so much as a stammer or blush.

It shuddered through him and he could only imagine the rush that he was getting now was the same kind of rush a cocaine addict had when they shot up. It was warming—no, burning in his bloodstream, and he throbbed harder, desperate. Before he could stop himself, Mycroft’s eyes half-closed with pure desire, and he gripped those upper arms before throwing Greg down onto his back and thrusting quick and hard. It wasn’t because he had come to dislike that position, but that he _had_ to hold Greg. He wrapped his arms like a vise around that chest, and held him tightly as he moved, trapping that erection between their stomachs.

Greg shouted and gripped his shoulders, scratching at his back, but Mycroft didn’t care. He merely growled in desire, lightly biting at his partner’s shoulder. He knew he should modulate his thrusts, but couldn’t. “This…is what happens,” he grunted with a passionate growl in Greg’s ear, “when you _break_ my self-control.”

One of Greg’s hands flailed before gripping the headboard. “F-Fuck, Mycroft!” Those legs wrapped around his waist tightly and they shared a deep, almost feral kiss. “Ohhhh, shiiiit, this is amazing! God!”

“If you are still coherent, then it’s not good enough,” he muttered and Mycroft shifted his hips. With a few thrusts, he managed to find Greg’s prostate again and almost abused it, hearing the loud yells like music. Greg could be as loud as he wanted, there was no one for him to disturb.

He left several more marks on Greg’s neck before he couldn’t ignore his body screaming at him. It had been so long, too long, and he felt his stamina, his ability to hold off his release, fading. One of the arms that had trapped Greg to his chest in a highly possessive manner moved and he squirmed his hand between them. When he found what he was looking for, beginning to pump Greg’s arousal, the begging, cries, and cursing grew worse.

“C-Can’t a-anymore, Mycroft!”

Mycroft smiled, panting and feeling the strain in his muscles from doing activities he wasn’t used to. He could feel his body tensing up, warning him of his impending orgasm, and he pinched Greg’s tip. It was enough to send him over the edge and Mycroft gasped a bit at feeling that sticky substance coat their chests. He chuckled and licked a bit that had hit Greg’s chin.

“Mycroft,” Greg moaned, voice sounding hoarse, and wrapped both arms around his shoulders. The silent encouragement was all he needed and after two more thrusts, his climax hit him like a freight train. He let out a puff of air, a deep groan that was wrenched unwillingly from his throat, and though his eyes had closed, he could feel Greg’s on him as he arched his head back. Little butterfly kisses went down his throat, even sucking a little on his adam’s apple, before Mycroft collapsed bonelessly on top of him.

No orgasm in his life had _ever_ felt that good before. It was still trembling through his body with aftershocks. His hand shifted from his lover’s softening cock to hold his hip lightly. If his hips moved a bit, causing Greg to gasp a little, it was accidental. “Gregory,” he whispered, voice sounding and feeling raw. “Gregory, Gregory, Gregory…” His brilliant mind had shut down on him, leaving him unable to say anything except his boyfriend’s name like a chant.

“That was…mindblowing.”

He grunted in agreement, all he was capable of doing. His limbs were jelly, he couldn’t even move to pull out of Greg yet. He was perfectly content to just listen without speaking…or moving…or even breathing.

“Don’t even know what I was afraid of.”

Mycroft blinked and asked, “Afraid?”

Greg looked at him sheepishly. “Well, yeah. When you first told me that I’d be the… ‘submissive’ one it was a little scary. I’d never been with a guy before and when you’re doing that kind of thing for the first time, it’s daunting. Besides, I’ve seen some shit as a cop that’d make you think twice. I had someone that had something,” He coughed, deciding not to mention what it was, “up his rear and it got stuck there. So I was a tad hesitant.”

“And now?”

“Shit, Mycroft, I’ve never felt so good in my life. If I was twenty years younger, I’d be ready to go again right now.”

He snorted in amusement and finally gathered himself, pulling out and dropping next to the detective. Greg fumbled, managing to reach his shirt without moving too much, and began to scrub at their chests to clean themselves up. Mycroft rumbled in appreciation when that hand rubbed his body and took the shirt to return the favor.

“God, I wish I didn’t have to work tomorrow. I’ll be lucky if I can sit down.” He eyed Mycroft with a smirk. “I mean, we do have the whole night.”

Mycroft laughed a bit. His day was going to be busy, but already his mind had returned to normal. “I’m afraid that I can’t stay tomorrow, but…” His knuckles rubbed against that stubbled chin. “How about dinner soon, and then we can…relax for a night and the day after?”

“How soon?”

“Soon as I can,” he promised, unwilling to set a date just yet. He hated breaking promises and that would be a poor way to start the beginning of their relationship.

Yet, Greg nodded in understanding. That was indeed a blessing because both of them had jobs that required long hours and broken appointments. They were both going into this with eyes wide open at least.

As Greg curled at his side, idly talking about whatever came to mind, Mycroft hummed in return and he made a mental note to thank Sherlock later. Much later.

-0-

“Honestly, Mycroft, that color is abhorrent.”

Mycroft sighed and looked over at Sherlock sitting in a chair in his bedroom with annoyance. “Why are you here, Sherlock?” he asked, removing his hand from the beige suit he’d been about to grab. It had been a week and he’d finally managed to get a time that both his and Greg’s schedule had coincided for their first date. He’d been stunned to find Sherlock standing on the doorstep when he’d returned home. His brother had just been about to pick the lock, so some things never changed. Even more surprising was that John was nowhere to be seen.

“Watching you make terrible clothing choices. That suit is hideous. Unless you want Lestrade to break up with you the moment he sees you, convinced that this was indeed a terrible mistake.”

He rolled his eyes, having had to listen to criticism about everything he’d done for the past twenty minutes and it was grating a bit on his already jangled nerves. “Unless you’re going to be helpful in some way, leave.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” was the immediate reply and Mycroft crossed his arms and stepped back when Sherlock dove into his closet. He listened to the ‘no, no, god where did he get this, no wonder he never got laid before, what the hell is _that_ ’ with a raised eyebrow.

After a minute, his brother reappeared with his arms full of clothes and tossed them on the bed with a haphazard fashion that had him protesting, as they’d all just been ironed. “Sherlock!”

The suit he’d picked out was a deep, rich blue and much to his surprise, he had grabbed the waistcoat as well. “For some reason I’ll never know, Lestrade likes looking at you dressed up like this, so the least you can do is pick something that you’ll look passable in.” As if not even aware he was speaking out loud now, perhaps conditioned because of John, he continued talking, “The blue will bring out your eyes.” He tossed a blue and gold patterned tie with it after studying several he’d brought out. “The white shirt will set off the blue. Anything else and you’d look like a blob, not that you need much help doing that.” Black socks were tossed over Sherlock’s shoulder as he rifled through a drawer. “Since all you own are black socks, that will have to do. Really, Mycroft, branch out.”

Mycroft watched, bemused, as his brother turned to a small jewelry box on the bedside table and opened it. Inside it, neatly placed in rows and padding, were his tie clips, cufflinks, and one of two pocket watches. “Gold will set off the blue, draw the eye, and it looks better with your hideous complexion.”The tieclip and cufflinks were dropped next to the socks. He touched the watches, both gold but with very different designs. One he had bought years ago, when he’d just started work and the other had been left on his doorstep a few days after they had gotten Sherlock clean for the last time, and he’d stayed clean. They had never acknowledged it, but Mycroft knew, and Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew, that it had been the closest he’d ever get to a thank you for what he had done.

As if self-conscious, Sherlock went to grab the old one and he said quietly, “No, the one on the left.”

“It wouldn’t fit right with the rest,” Sherlock told him with a frown.

“I always wear the one on the left, Sherlock, and today will be no exception.”

There was silence as they just stared at each other, having a silent conversation that they would never ever acknowledge or put into words later.

 _What are you worried about?_ he asked with his eyes.

_You have Lestrade now._

_So? You have John._ He could see the doubt in Sherlock’s eyes, the real meaning. _I won’t abandon you. Who you have, and who I have, makes no difference._

“Whatever,” Sherlock said gruffly, tossing it carelessly onto the pile. He knew better than to ask where Mycroft had gotten it. He dropped back down in his chair, tapping his fingers on his knees as Mycroft disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed. He couldn’t help but smile at how cute it was that he’d had to reassure Sherlock that he would still be part of his life, that he wouldn’t forget it just because he had someone else he loved. So clingy.

He came back out to pull on his shoes. “No fingerprints on them, Mycroft?” Sherlock snarked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but ignored the comment. When he was finished, he straightened his suit just a little out of habit and glanced in the mirror. He had to admire Sherlock’s choices, as the suit itself seemed slim and sleek, and it really did seem to bring out his eyes. Not that he would ever tell him that. No need to give Sherlock’s ego any more fuel.

As his fingers reached for the final buttons on his coat to close it, his brother’s voice lanced across the silence, “Leave it unbuttoned. For some reason, Lestrade thinks that appears sexier.”

Their eyes met through the mirror and Mycroft finally let the man see his smile. Probably for the first time in his entire life, he said honestly, “Thank you.”

The air became awkward and he regretted saying it immediately, but Sherlock nodded and responded quietly, “You’re welcome.” With that, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Mycroft took a moment to center himself, to calm his beating heart. After a minute he followed Sherlock’s footsteps, picking up his umbrella near the door. This was a massively bad idea…but he wouldn’t stop for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured that Sherlock would finally, once Lestrade and Mycroft were together, be forced to face an idiotic fear that Mycroft wouldn’t pay attention or care about him anymore. He’s spent his whole life being almost the center of Mycroft’s attention and he’s never had to do without before, even if his worry isn’t necessary


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected follow-up to unexpected developments! *ow* Okay, that was a bad pun.
> 
> This takes place the direct morning after Part 2, before the scene with Sherlock and Mycroft.

Mycroft was up early, at four in the morning. He was habitually an early riser, albeit not quite this early. He wanted, needed, time to get ready and his routine would be calming to his mind that was still a whirlwind after the night before. Carefully he slid out of the bed and went to the adjoining bath, closing the door so that the light didn’t wake the other sleeping occupant. When he finished with his shower, he pulled out the freshly pressed suit and began to get dressed.

As he pulled on his shirt and pushed the buttons through the holes, he looked down at Greg. The man was sprawled on his stomach on the bed and somehow it just seemed to fit the man he knew so much. When they’d fallen asleep, Greg had cuddled up to his side, much to Mycroft’s apprehension. He was not accustomed to such things, but the detective had told him he’d best get used to it. Somehow the snuggling against his side had, in the night, turned into him sprawling an arm and leg over the taller man and snoring into the pillow.

It was…cute. Clearly Greg had gotten used to sleeping alone and hadn’t had to fight someone for space for awhile. Not that there wasn’t enough space; his bed was quite large. Mycroft shook his head at how lenient he’d become with Greg and focused on his clothes.  As he was about to tuck his shirt into his open trousers, there was movement and a mutter of, “Where ya goin’?”

That amazing accent was only thicker with sleep and a hand fumbled, but grabbed onto the tail of his shirt, tugging him closer to the bed. “I have to go to work, Gregory,” he said with an indulgent smile.

Those eyes rolled to the bedside clock. “S’four in the morning…” was the protested moan.

“Some of us do still work at such times,” Mycroft pointed out, but leaned down to kiss him softly. “Go back to sleep. I’ve set the alarm for you.”

“Need to stay with me…”

He almost did when Gregory rolled over onto his back, the sheet falling away, and looking absolutely delectable. He wanted to ravish him completely, but knew he didn’t have time. “I would love to, but I can’t.”

The sleepy inspector was not going to be dissuaded. Those eyes were growing a bit more awake and he slowly sat up before nuzzling his lips into Mycroft’s groin. He moaned a little, just a little, and rested his hand in that spiky hair. “Gregory, please. I have to be at work.”

“Can’t give the government a blowjob?” Greg mumbled and lightly tugged down his underwear to kiss at his soft length.

“Not right now,” he said, but was doing an impressively poor job of resisting, he noted. That tongue was swirling around his flesh, making him shudder, and when he inadvertently reacted, that evil mouth wrapped around him. “Gregory,” he moaned, half a warning and half in pure desire.

His partner pulled back enough to mutter, “Wanted to do this with you in a suit for weeks.”

Mycroft flushed in embarrassment as Gregory returned to sucking him softly. He was already responding, feeling himself harden quickly. “I don’t have time, Gregory. Not for this, or to reciprocate.”

Yet all of his protests yielded no different result. He was summarily ignored and soon his own brilliant mind departed for its mini-vacation as pleasure began to increase his base instincts. His fingers tightened in that salt-and-pepper hair, gently rocking his hips. That tongue was performing wonders and he moaned, gasping and his toes curled through his socks to grip the carpet tightly. “Gregory…” he groaned in warning and the detective sucked hard, enough to push him over the edge. He couldn’t pull away, Greg wouldn’t let him, and he released his orgasm into that hot mouth.

A still slightly sleepy grin was flashed at him and Greg dropped onto his back, seeming to ignore his own hard arousal. Mycroft would have loved, _loved_ to stay and take care of it, but he really didn’t have the time. He could hardly make Spain wait!

“Love you,” Greg moaned.

“…And I love you,” he whispered in return, leaning down to kiss him fiercely before he quickly finished the rest of his dressing and headed out.

-0-

Anthea looked up from her phone as he walked into the office, umbrella in hand. In fact, he was getting a lot of stares today and he began to wonder if he had failed to correctly tie his tie or if there was a stain on his suit. He resisted the urge to look at himself in his reflection to fix whatever it was because his mirror had said his clothing was correct at the house.

He held out his free hand and his PA gave him a pile of folders, but followed him when he entered his office. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her once he reached his desk. “Is there a problem?”

She studied him. “Did something happen with the Detective Inspector, sir?”

“Why do you ask?”

Anthea gave him a look, but at least answered promptly, “You seem…relaxed.”

“Is that your way of asking if I had sexual relations with Gregory?”

“It’s the polite way.”

“I don’t pay you to be polite, Anthea.”

“Very well. Did you have sex with the Detective Inspector, sir?”

Mycroft smiled indulgently at the thought of the man he’d left behind in the bed. “Unexpectedly, yes.” He eyed her. “I do hope you’re not going to ask me details regarding the night.”

She smiled so brightly that it almost hurt to look at her. He had never honestly seen a real smile out of her, she was far too professional for that, but this time she seemed…so happy for him. “No. I don’t need to.”

“Good. If you did, I’d have to fire you.” He shifted. “Is this something that is…obvious? I’ve been stared at since I arrived.”

“It’s…noticeable, but not bad, sir.”

Mycroft nodded. “Then I suggest we get to work.”

“Shall I make some time free in your schedule for…?”

He thought about it. He really shouldn’t, he had a full day, and the British government needed him. “Yes, make some time for Gregory.”

“Yes, sir.”

-0-

Greg cursed Mycroft up one wall and down the other as he tried to sit down and felt the soreness run up his spine and legs. His lover was not exactly small and despite their age, their passions had kept them at it for quite a bit. So far, despite the stares from his coworkers, no one had brought up what had happened the day before. To be honest, he felt as if he had a sign over his head that was flashing and saying ‘completely ravished’.

He finally managed to lower himself to his chair, a cup of coffee in his hand. He’d just taken his first sip before the door was tossed open and Sherlock stalked in, John following behind. He at least had the decency to close the door after them. Greg groaned. He was not up to dealing with this within the first ten minutes of being at work and without even coffee fully hitting his system yet. “What do you want, Sherlock? I don’t have a case for you.”

Sherlock stalked up to his desk and crossed his arms. Those eyes were raking over his slightly rumpled form, at the fact that he’d had to rush home to get changed, at probably a dozen smaller details that he wasn’t even aware of that would give away his state of ravishment. John nudged at Sherlock and Greg muttered, feeling the need to say something since clearly the younger Holmes wasn’t going to, “ _Yes_ , we had sex, Sherlock.”

“That was abundantly obvious by the—”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, a tad urgently. “Remember that talk we had about stating ‘deductions’ about when someone had sex?”

“Yes.”

“That applies here. Greg doesn’t want to hear all the ways you know that. Some things are private.”

He flashed a grateful smile at John, feeling an odd kinship with the man because of anyone else in the world, the one who could understand the most about what it was like to date a Holmes, it was him. “Back to the original question. What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate for a moment, something that surprised him. “You and Mycroft had sex. What does that mean?”

“It means we’re dating,” he said, ignoring the chance to make a snide comment. Sherlock didn’t open himself very often to questions about his brother and he most emphatically did not want the young man to stop. If he could somehow, even a little, facilitate a better line of understanding between them, that was worth all the money and power in the world. “We talked about how relationships work and what we both expect and want from it.” Did he think that Greg had taken advantage of Mycroft’s uncertainty to get him into bed? “I asked him if he wanted me to leave, but he said stay.”

The consulting detective rolled his eyes as hard anyone could. “I was hardly suggesting that you raped or coerced my brother into sex, Lestrade.”

“Then you want to get to the point of your visit, Sherlock?” He glanced in distraction as John slid over two paracetamol for his soreness.

“What did Mycroft do after?”

“He fell asleep.” Greg honestly didn’t know why he was answering any of these questions, but this was Sherlock and Sherlock knew Mycroft better than anyone alive. If he was asking questions, the answers might give him greater insight into the man that still remained a mystery to him. “He got up at four this morning to go to work.”

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. “You clearly didn’t make a bad impression with sex.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mycroft wouldn’t have let you stay until four in the morning if you didn’t. As personally repugnant as it is to me to imagine _Mycroft_ having sex, I suppose everything sounds fine.”

“Did you honestly think I could break his heart in the first five minutes?” he asked in exasperation.

“I don’t know. That’s why I was asking,” Sherlock told him with the same tone he used when he thought Greg was being particularly dense and stupid.

Greg swallowed the pills belatedly. “Anything else you want to know?”

That ice blue gaze flickered between John and Greg. “Yes. I need information. How are you feeling in comparison to how John was a month ago after the first time we had sex?”

He stared, unable to believe what he was hearing. John was turning red as a cherry. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock ignored his partner’s outraged cry. “Well?”

“Uhh…I don’t know…”

“I know you and John talk.”

“We don’t talk about that!”

“Lestrade, I must have information—”

“ _Why_?” he growled in confusion.

“You. Out. Now.” John all but shoved Sherlock out of the room and closed the office door.

“What was that about?”

John took a deep breath. “All I’ll say is that it’s another little ‘childish feud’ about…” The doctor coughed a bit before stepping out and Greg’s brain finally caught up. If he hadn’t been so sore, he’d have rushed out and beat Sherlock to death with his own coat for even asking such a stupid thing! Whether it was about who was better in bed, or who had a bigger cock, he didn’t care!

Lunch couldn’t have come quick enough and by that time, the painkillers had taken effect and he sighed, leaning back in his chair. A knock attracted his attention and he yelled, “Come in.”

He grinned brightly as Mycroft walked through the door, perfectly put together with his umbrella. “Hey.”

“How are you feeling, Gregory?”

“Eh, better. Had a close encounter with Sherlock and his grilling about our sex life this morning.”

Mycroft frowned heavily as he sat down in the chair opposite Greg’s desk. “Do I have to have a talk with him?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Sherlock is just Sherlock and he’s your baby brother. Of course he’s going to get overprotective of you with a new boyfriend.” The eye roll was a mimic of Sherlock and he could only grin wider at how similar they really were. “So…lunch?”

“Quite.”  



End file.
